Hurt
by CheshireRyan
Summary: "I need you to know that I understand and I'm not angry anymore. I'm just sad." - TW: suicide. One-shot.


Disclaimer: I do not own _Glee._

**Warning: Suicide and character death.**

Song title from "Hurt" by NIN. Was listening to Johnny Cash's cover.

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**Hurt**

I've never known how to hide from you. Somehow you manage to see all of me, even when I don't want you to. Sometimes when you looked at me, I felt naked and I felt awkward and bashful and I wanted to cover myself up. I still do sometimes, even though I'm twenty years older and supposedly wiser and more self-confident. But I wasn't naked, that wasn't what you were staring at. You were seeing the me inside of me and it wasn't something I ever wanted people to see, but I didn't know how to keep you from seeing it. So I ignored the uncomfortable twist in my gut and continued on with whatever the hell I was doing.

Somewhere along the line, this has become a norm for us. You're quiet now, solemn. We're together in our solitude, me with a book or my journal and you just staring off into space. I never thought I'd be okay with someone knowing me, but I'm getting there. You've been a great help with that.

I wonder what goes on in your head sometimes. I know you miss her, I think you always will. I miss her too, but it's not the same. You loved her differently. She was your partner-in-crime, your wife. She was my best friend, almost my sister. It's different and the same and we both miss her and it's a visceral ache. And there are some days of the year that are harder than the others and I worry about you the most then.

But I know that's not all that's in your head. You have lesson plans for your fifth-graders to work out, a little boy to worry about. He's nothing but adorable. The highlight of my mornings is when he comes racing into my bedroom and yells for his "Aunt Winnie" as I'm trying to rub the sleep out of my face. He bounces onto my bed and sometimes we cuddle and he rambles about all the things he's going to do at school or what colors the sunrise was or when Spongebob is going to get his driver's license. You'd figure after being on the air for nearly thirty years, the damn sponge would get it...

It's scary how similar the two of you are. He makes me think of you when we were little, before words like _ADHD_ and _dyslexia_ and _IEP_ were thrown around. Back when you were just a quirky, bouncy little kid who didn't want to sit still or read. I miss those days sometimes, just for the hours we could spend coloring and giggling and tormenting your cat with _Elmer's Glue_ and glitter. I don't think I'd want to relive it, though. I know too much now.

Santiago acts just like you do, but he has the little chubby cheeks that Santana did and the same big brown eyes. When you told me about what the two of you were planning on doing, I was terrified. It sounded like some crazy science-fiction story. I was sure that he'd wind up like some mutated serial-killer monster. But he's here and there aren't any dead animals under the porch and he has all ten toes and ten fingers and I'm pretty sure he's as un-mutated as a little kid can be. He takes such glee in wiggling his teeth in my face that I sort of question it on occasion, though. He thinks it's hilarious that I'm grossed out by it.

"Winnie?" he asks as he wanders into the living room. I realize that you've left and I've been lost in my mind, not bothering with the book that's been open in my lap for at least an hour.

"What's up, little guy?" I say.

"Mommy's not getting up." I frown and his eyes are wide and sort of scared and I swallow. It can't be anything bad, I decide. You have a six-year old. You have the most beautiful little boy in existence and a classroom full of ten year olds. I knew you were sad, knew it. But I... you're just sleeping.

I follow Santiago up into your room. You're lying in bed, a scrap of Santana's baby blanket on the pillow next to you. I can see foamy gunk at the corner of your mouth and on the pillowcase. Oh _fuck._

"Go get the phone for me?" I ask San and he nods, racing off to downstairs. I make my way to you, my fingers going to your neck and hoping for a pulse. I can't feel anything, but I hope it's just because my hands are shaking. I can feel something poking me in the side and it's your son with the phone. I send him downstairs to watch _Spongebob_ as I call 911, not wanting him to hear me breakdown as the dispatcher tries to walk me through getting you onto the floor and into attempting compressions. I'm sobbing as paramedics rush into the room and start to check you over. A police officer pulls me out into the hallway.

"Ma'am," she says, "Ma'am. Do you know what happened?"

And that's where I lose it. I know what happened and I don't know what happened and it doesn't matter, does it? It doesn't matter because you can't tell us for sure because the paramedics are putting you on a stretcher, but they aren't doing anything and I know you're dead. You're dead, Brittany. You're dead and you left me and Santiago. This isn't what Santana did. She didn't pick to leave. She had an aneurism that burst while she was in the middle of a grocery store when you were seven months pregnant and on bed rest. You're dead because you picked being dead.

It's not until I'm at the morgue at the hospital, signing paperwork to authorize an autopsy and saying where to send your body that I finally understand. I don't blame you. At least, not as much as I think I should. I blame me more than I blame you. I didn't help you enough, didn't try to get you to go to a doctor or open up. I hope you didn't blame me, because I don't think I could live with myself if you did. You and Santana were the happy couple, two thirds of our Unholy Trinity and now it's just me. Me and Santiago and I hope that he doesn't wind up fucked because of this. He's a ball of sunshine and I can't bare to see him clouded over.

I hope you know that I'm not as mad as I would've been if this were high school. Yes, I'm heartbroken because my best friends are both gone and now I have to explain to a six year old where his mommy went. And when I say something about you hanging out with Mama Santana and the angels and he gets this solemn look on his face, I feel my heart crack just that much more. I'm not mad, but I'm starting to feel disappointment. You couldn't have sought out help on your own? You couldn't have stuck around? And then my feelings start to warp into anger and I have the hardest time not hating you.

The books I write grow dark and my editor finally says something. Except he doesn't say it aloud. He hands me a notecard with an address and time. A support group for survivors of suicide. It takes me a few months before I step foot in a meeting, longer until I open up.

I can't say that I'm over it, that I've moved on, not even when Santiago's in high school, joining his school's glee club because he heard a recording of Santana and you singing a duet. My heart clenches painfully and I swallow hard. Why couldn't you have stuck around to see this, to see him? He's small, thin, just like Santana and he has your attitude. Somehow becoming an orphan who was adopted by his aunt didn't fuck with his head too much. It might have to do with all the therapy I sent him to growing up. I'm not really sure.

But it's a continual ache and every time I think I start to get numb to it, something sets it off. Like picking the scab off a gash and having it start bleeding again. That's what missing you is like. But I'm doing my best, Brittany. I'm not sure I believe in God or Heaven anymore, but if they do exist, I hope that the old thing about suicides going to Hell is false. I need you to be with Santana in Heaven and happy. Because that would make me feel just slightly better about this.

When Santiago graduates college and starts graduate school to become a psychologist, I bite the inside of my cheek and run my fingers through my greying hair. I'm proud of him, but I miss the both of you so sorely. I know he does, though he only remembers you and even then, just barely. I have a feeling that might be why he's decided he wants to work with people in crisis. I'm not entirely sure because he seems to avoid the subject so I won't be upset. But whatever reason he's doing it, it's good enough for me. He's been my sunshine for years and now he's helping others.

I don't blame you or hate you anymore. I just miss you. I understand, I do. I wasn't in love with you the same way you were with her, but once you were gone I was so hopeless and lost and the only thing I had was a little boy and even then he wasn't enough all the time. And I thought about it in my worst moments. I did. But then I would feel guilty because of that sweet little face down the hall, that cracky voice that would greet me every morning, the wicked sense of humor that would make jokes over dinner to get me to laugh.

But I've come to understand. And I just need you to know, Brittany. I need you to know that I understand and I'm not angry anymore. I'm just sad.


End file.
